The Application of Will
by Winter Ashby
Summary: [Drabble] [Repost] Trumpkin doesn't believe in magic. [Trumpkin & Lucy]


**Previously posted as part of a Multifandom Drabble Collection.**

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**Title: **The Application of Will**  
Author:** Winter Ashby (_rosweldrmr_)**  
Disclaimer: **Narnia © C.S. Lewis  
**Rating:** K**  
Summary: **Trumpkin doesn't believe in magic. (Trumpkin/Lucy)**  
Authors Notes: **Done for **kaiwynn**'s _**NARNIA UNCANON DRABBLE-A-THON**_ at LJ**  
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Trumpkin doesn't believe in magic.

Born centuries too late to be proven wrong, he just figures things like magic are made up constructs to appease a race of creatures that have been methodically exterminated. Made to hide in hollowed-out trees and scurry through the underbrush of the forest like common animals.

He doesn't believe in benevolence and justice. He's never known such things, except in fairy tales about the Sons of Adam and the Daughters of Eve. But those are just legends, told to little Narnians who fear the dark. They're just bed-time stories.

He sees homes destroyed, and visited the great ruins of Cair Paravel. But all he sees at the Eastern Citadel are the ancient remains of a genocide.

Humans who are kind and brave are as likely as Aslan: a ridiculous legend of a lion who rose from the dead. What use would he have for such unpractical things anyway? He's a warrior, a general, leader of the underground rebellion. He is loyal to Caspian the tenth because it's pragmatic.

It's strange, then, that it was he who sounded the fabled horn of Susan's. But the siege is long, and desperation grips heavy hearts in the wake of blood and ashes. It's a fool's hope to trust, to believe, to dare to wish that they're not alone. And he's still just enough of a fool to blow the horn.

It's not the prospect Aslan that he dares to hope for. It's the idea that maybe there are still those who remember. Not like the bears that've forgotten how to speak or trees that no longer dance (maybe never did). The horn is for those who are left, for those who can still fight, who still cling to the names of Aslan and Peter the Magnificent like a promise of a Golden Age still yet to come. It's for those who still believe that there is some hope left.

He knows he's hoping for a miracle, to think that after so long they would reemerge. But he suspects that is the true power of the horn. It rallies all those who still beleive.

Trumpkin doesn't believe in magic, because it's something he can't see or touch or hear. And if he can't touch something, he doesn't believe.

But all that changes when he see _her_.

She's younger – still baby-faced and freckled. But there is no mistaking her. He's seen her face before. When he was much younger, hiding in the great catacombs of old. There was a tomb of a faun there, with a huge painting of the very same face. Shinning eyes, vibrant smile, and an air of innocence he couldn't explain. Even though the paint was chipped and faded from age in the torch-light, he couldn't help but think she had the most beautiful face he'd ever seen.

He read the inspection of the tomb, and scoffed to think of such crows and crockery.

But as he stands before her, crosses blades with her brother, watches the skill of her sister's bow, and is healed with a drop of her elixir – he is forced to reconsider his stance on magic.

He vows then, as she looks at him with those innocent, a-lifetime-old-already-eyes that no harm shall come to her.

Magic seems to come to her freely. It surrounds her, drawn to her – like he is. And when he's with her, or around her, or suffering the indignity of DLF, he loves her. He loves her courage, because it surpasses what he thought was possible of one so small. He loves her valor, even when it gets her into trouble, which inevitably gets him into trouble. But most of all, he loves it when she insists she's an adult, because really – even when she was grown centuries ago, he was sure she was still a child at heart.

She had more faith in the unseen things than any Narnian he'd ever known. She asked him once, by firelight, what things would have been like if they hadn't left.

He frowned, and poked the embers with a stick. "Then I would never have met you." He mumbled, mostly to his beard.

She smiles, brightly, and touches his hand. "I suppose you're right."

And he's never wished to be a child so much. He's never wanted to believe in magic more than when he's with her. He's never wanted to be human more than he does as he watches her go. And his heart aches for a lifetime after she's gone, leaving them (him) behind.

Trumpkin didn't believe in things like magic and love, until he met Lucy Pevensie.


End file.
